When I log into the video call with Trident, three people are waiting for me: two I know, one I don’t.

“Shelby! Hello!” Dulari greets me enthusiastically with a wave from what I recognize as her office. She’s the young twenty-something editor to whom I originally pitched my Horse Girls coloring book concept. Back then, she worked for a much smaller scholastic publishing house in Portland, Oregon. This was before Trident bought them out.

“Nice to see you, Dulari,” I say, appreciating the kind energy radiating from her. Even if the place we’re at now has strayed far from my original concept, she’s always been a fun and supportive person to collaborate with. I wave at her boss, Ted Bracken sitting in a conference room with a woman who looks like a corporate lawyer.

“Shelby, I’d like to introduce Cheryl Gelson,” Ted says, and the third woman on the nods at me, a little like visiting royalty. All three of them are dressed in New York chic. Ted and Cheryl are both in dark suits, Dulari’s wearing an elegant silky blush blouse she looks fantastic in.

I’m glad I’m wearing the pretty vintage cream-colored sweater I found in Theo’s private collection while looking for picture frames last night. I’m happy I reimagined the bookshelf behind me too. Both give me a sense of accomplishment. at least I now look the part of a cool art girl illustrator, although I don’t feel like one yet.

“Shelby, it’s lovely to finally meet you,” Cheryl tells me in a tone that sounds like she’s been requesting this gathering for weeks, “I’m excited to share with you how we see Passion, Fashion, Fun: Horses unfold now moving forward.”

“Passion, Fashion, Fun: Horses?” I ask, confused but hoping it doesn’t show too much on my face. Did I miss something? Are there emails I haven’t read?

“It’s the brand-new name for the coloring book,” Ted says to me brightly, “to go with the series of other inspirational and active living coloring books we’re creating for women. We’re also developing Passion, Fashion, Fun: Dancing and Passion, Fashion, Fun: Surfing.”

“It just became official today,” Dulari pipes in, “that’s why we haven’t shared it with you yet.”

“The new series builds a bigger platform for other product placement and promotion on social media,” Cheryl says, in a tone that tells me this is what really interests her. Should I be worried?

“By product, do you mean other items that can go along with the coloring book like individual prints for paint by number or…” I ask.

“I like how you think,” Cheryl says with a knowing smile that relaxes her frosty demeanor a little, “but in this case, no we mean bigger ticket items like all of the fabulous apparel and other accoutrement that goes along with horses,” she says this last part with an emphasized French flair.

“Like tack?” I clarify, still not sure I’m following.

“Exactly!” Cheryl affirms, “Trident’s new parent company owns the top-tier equestrian brand Ride Out.”

At this point, Dulari is starting to appear uncomfortable. Ted jumps into the conversation enthusiastically, “We have the report you sent about your growing social media strength, which has promise—”

“Your illustrations are fantastic,” Dulari pipes in, “I love that you’re going to draw a coloring page for Howl’s Magic Castle!”

Both Cheryl and Ted smile politely but vaguely. They obviously have no idea what Dulari is referring to.

“I haven’t seen you sharing pictures of yourself riding like the other two illustrators for this project,” Cheryl retakes the reins of the conversation. That’s a missing that needs to be rectified as soon as possible.” Her tone is now stern, which I have a feeling is its default setting.

“Oh,” I say, my mind feeling like a dog’s nails scrambling for purchase on wood flooring. This is the first time this topic has ever been brought up.

“I’m not taking riding lessons right now. I don’t own a horse,” I admit. I can’t fake horse ownership.

“You don’t?” Cheryl blinks at me in surprise, “But you do ride, right? I’m sure I saw someplace that you ride,” she starts flipping through paperwork.

“Yes, I do ride,” I tell her, “But I haven’t taken lessons since I moved up to Washington State a few years ago.”

She and Ted’s expressions seem to expect me to pull a horse out of mid-air. Crap. A wave of angry embarrassment hits me. I’m back to being a teen taking riding lessons at a beautiful high-end stable in a Malibu canyon. I was the only middle-class kid among the children of famous Hollywood producers, directors, and actors.

Dulari looks absolutely mortified now. She knows the story. I gave up riding at fifteen because we couldn’t afford to lease a horse. The whole point of Horse Girls (the one I started with, anyway) was that so many women and girls who love horses can’t afford to own them or even take lessons.

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You don’t need to own a horse or take riding lessons to love or be inspired by them. Horses are expensive. That’s why coloring books featuring them are so popular — they’re affordable access. How did this message not get across to Ted and Cheryl? Their growth market isn’t the women and girls who own horses; it’s the ones who dream of it.

“But Dulari says you live in horse country now; couldn’t you start up again? Like next week?” Ted asks, as if this is a no brainer.

“I’d love to,” I say, stalling, not wanting to admit that it would be a tough financial stretch right now.

“Perfect!” Cheryl says as if relieved, “Our target market is female equestrian twenty-somethings, like the other two illustrators, but having you as a young middle-aged rider expands our appeal,” she says this as if she has no awareness that she herself, obviously in her late 40’s or older, is squarely in the middle of middle age.

Yes, technically, thirty-four is considered young middle-aged, at least in Cheryl’s marketing world way of thinking. Maybe I shouldn’t be insulted, but I am. Heck, my mother still considers herself middle-aged at sixty.

So, has their challenge with my Instagram feed been about my not showing off a horse? Did Jack and I both missed the boat?

“Do you ride English or Western?” Ted asks politely.

“Both,” I say, and then because I’m so annoyed, I want to brag a little, “But I’ll take dressage lessons again when I return.”

“Oh, you ride dressage,” Cheryl coos, looking much happier, “that’s impressive, all those top hats and tails on horseback; it’s so elegant.”

I’m glad I’ve impressed her, but I’m knocked off my already shaky center. I thought this call was about proving how popular I could become on social media as an illustrator, not an equestrian. I don’t point out to her that people at my intermediate level of riding this Olympic sport don’t wear fancy attire in competition; that’s only for the best of the best.

The money we’ve been offered to publish this book, split three ways, is nowhere near the budget I’d need to take weekly lessons and lease a dressage-trained (and obviously photogenic) horse.

“As soon as you’re all set up, Ride Out will be happy to send you some swag,” Ted tells me, breaking into my thoughts, “As the lead illustrator and ideator of this project, you deserve a beautiful new horse blanket. Or at least a saddle pad that matches your riding togs, don’t you think, Cheryl?”

“Ride Out?” I ask, stunned, still stuck on what Ted said about a saddle pad and riding togs. They’re serious about this. The tsunami wave is towering in my mind, getting ready to crash down on me. Ride Out is what the Hollywood elite girls wore at my stable. Yes, their saddle pads often matched their riding togs.

“Yes. The best of the best,” Cheryl confirms, “How soon do you think you can start uploading images from your riding lessons and some general stable shots for atmosphere? The sooner and more scenic, the better. I’m sure someone with your aesthetics in design understands this.”

I take a slow deep breath before I tell them, “I think this new direction you’re going in, mixing action sports and fashion with an inspiring coloring book, is compelling.” This is the sort of thing Uncle Theo would say. He was such a master diplomat.

“Excellent,” Ted beams a newscaster’s smile at me.

“My challenge is that riding lessons just aren’t in my wheelhouse right now with my current schedule; I wish they were.” I hope I look sincere as I say this, when what I am is pissed off at their new angle of for the rich only cross-promotional branding.

Dulari’s face now has a bit of a green cast to it. She appears as blind-sided by this whole unfolding as I am.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Cheryl says, as if I've flunked an important math test. "We’ll need to pivot then, remove your name from the title, and purchase your artwork. Ted can work that out with you.”

“Excuse me?” Am I getting fired for not being able to afford a horse to photograph for their social media, “You’re removing me from the project I brought to you?”

“You brought an idea to a publishing house that was folded into ours. It’s evolved since then, become much more marketable,” Cheryl has returned to her original haughtiness at the opening of the phone call.

“You signed a new contract when Trident bought out Smart Owls Publishing, which gave us the right to take you off the cover if you didn’t prove to be a good fit,” Ted tells me, in a voice that says I should have read the fine print better.

My mind is reeling. How did I miss that in the contract? How could I be such an idiot? When I told Vivienne I was worried I’d be fired, I was being dramatic.

Sell them your art, sweetheart, and be done with them, a familiar, beloved male voice says quietly in my head, and ask them if you can have the Horse Girls name back.

On screen, Dulari seems to want the floor to open and swallow her whole. I can relate. Cheryl and Ted look like this is just another meeting. It probably is.

Theo? I ask silently. Is it possible? Or am I going crazy from stress and heartbreak?

I’m here, darling, he answers.

“I want the use of my original Horse Girls title,” I blurt out quickly. Ted and Cheryl, share a glance.

“Done,” Ted says, smiling again, “we don’t need it.”

We all sign off extremely quickly after that.

What just happened, I ask silently, jumping up out of the chair, but there’s no response. My body is buzzing with anger and shame, but I’m also hoping against hope that didn’t imagine Theo’s voice in desperation.

Theo, are you still there? I ask in my head as I march upstairs, “How is this happening?”

I’m still here darling, he says, You got rid of enough of your mental blocks to let me in.

What do I do now? I ask, Butterscotch at my heels, excited to see me. I shut her out of the office since it wasn’t dog friendly meeting.

Go for a walk, Theo advises.

That’s sound advice. I need to get outside, decompress, and work off some of this anger. My spine’s about ready to snap. I also need to figure out if I’m going insane. If Theo’s voice isn’t imagined, what is it? Am I channeling him? Do I believe such a thing is possible? I hope it’s possible. I miss him so much.

Through my bedroom windows, I can see it’s misting again. I don’t care. I slip quickly out of my sweater and jeans and change into fleece-lined leggings, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a hoodie against the chill.

In the laundry room, I grab my lightest rain jacket off the hook by the door, head out for my regular trail walk, and run loop. I leave Butterscotch behind because it’s farther than she likes to go yet.